


The End

by alternatealto



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Post "Everybody Dies"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:11:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternatealto/pseuds/alternatealto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When is a death!fic NOT a death!fic?   (No, really.  It's not!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End

 

 

“Time of death, 9:59 p.m.,” House said, mostly out of habit. 

He looked a moment longer at the still form on the bed of their tiny studio apartment, then walked away to stare out the window into the darkened street.  These last few weeks had been hell, Wilson’s suffering only slightly mitigated by the morphine.  Things would have dragged on even longer if Wilson hadn’t refused anything but the most basic palliative care:  not even oxygen, at the end.  House couldn’t fault him. 

He turned and looked around him.  His final arrangements had been made hours before, when Wilson had slipped into terminal coma.  The radio and television were both on a timer that would ensure they turned on at full volume next morning, and an envelope containing final instructions lay prominently in the center of the table.   Carefully, he walked over and made sure the door was unlocked, then went back to the bed and lay down next to Wilson.  Picking up the syringe from the night stand, he did the automatic check to be sure there was no air bubble in the needle, then injected himself with quick efficiency and closed his eyes.   This wouldn’t take long; more importantly, it wouldn’t hurt.  His last thought was of mottled sunlight through bright spring leaves, with Wilson riding beside him down a long, winding road.

 

* * * * *

 

“Ooomph!” 

Someone had landed on top of him, laughing and kissing him and coaxing him to “Wake up, House!  We did it!  We’re finally here!” 

Kissing back and laughing himself, he opened his eyes and found himself looking into Wilson’s, which were sparkling with health and radiant with joy.  He seemed ten years younger, at least, and appeared to be in perfect condition, judging from the firm feel of his body against House’s. 

“I told you!  I _told_ you!” Wilson went on.  “Look around!  We did it, we’re _here!_ ”  He stood and reached out a hand.   “Come on, get up!  Take a look.” 

House did as requested.  “Here” appeared to be a small field next to a road.  He was standing with Wilson in the soft grass under a large tree; nearby were the motorcycles.  Puzzled, he looked back at the other man.  “If this is the afterlife, why does it look like our road trip?” 

“Because this is where it starts,” Wilson said joyfully.  “It has to start where it ended, House, isn’t that obvious?” 

House blinked and shook his head.  There was something . . . something . . . “You’re dead,” he said, flatly.  “And so am I, or I will be soon.  This is just anoxia.” 

“Not _dead_ , we’re _finished_ ,” Wilson corrected him.  “ ‘Dead’ is for _real_ people.” 

House looked him over.  “You seem pretty real to me,” he observed. 

Wilson preened slightly, looking at him sidelong through laughing eyes. “Same to you.  I think our fans are doing a good job.” 

“Okay, _that_ made no sense.  Look, a few minutes ago I was in our apartment, calling time of death on your body and getting ready to die myself.  And now . . .” 

“Ohhh!” Wilson said in a realizing tone.  “I get it.  You must have jumped right into a fic as soon as the last credits finished.  No wonder you’re confused.” 

“And you’re helping _so_ much,” House grumbled. 

Wilson bent down and picked up his leather jacket, which House had evidently been using as a pillow.  “Okay, listen to me,” he said, shaking the grass off of it and frowning at the creases in the leather, “and think carefully.  Do you remember any details of what happened _before_ you were calling time of death?” 

House frowned, searching his memory.  “No.  No, I don’t, actually.”  He began to feel a little alarmed, but Wilson was nodding and smiling at him slightly. 

“Okay.  Other than that . . . moment . . .  what _do_ you remember?” 

He thought about it.  “We were on the cycles, riding.  We stopped for a minute so I could take a whiz off a bridge, and then we kept going.  You . . . you had a mustache and a beard,” he added, gesturing at Wilson’s clean-shaven face. 

“And then?” 

“And then . . . the apartment.  Or . . . wait.  Was that . . . there was something weird about that.” 

“Weird in what way?” 

“The whole place consisted of a bed with a night stand next to it, a window, a table and a door.  I know there were a radio and a television, but I don’t know what they looked like.  There was a street outside, but I don’t remember anything about it.  I don’t even remember if the place had walls.” 

“Minimal scene setting,” Wilson said clinically.  “The writer only gave enough details to give the impression of the space, not enough for complete realization.” 

“What?”  Every time he thought he was getting somewhere with this conversation, Wilson took it in some strange and unanticipated direction. 

“I should have expected this,” Wilson sighed.  “You always were the more fully realized of the two of us; no wonder you’re confused.” 

House stared at him.  “You’re making it sound as if we’re . . .” 

“Not real?” Wilson finished for him.  “Well, for certain values of ‘reality’, we aren’t.  We’re _characters,_ House.  We’re _fictional._   Remember?” 

“I don’t know about _you_ ”, House said indignantly, “but _I_ am definitely real.”  He pinched himself.  “Ouch.  See?  Proves it.” 

“House.  Do you remember your last patient?” 

“The heroin addict.  Sure.” 

“Where did you last see him?” 

“Next to me on the floor of a warehouse, while I was . . . hallucinating from an OD.” 

“And the warehouse was?” 

“Downtown, somewhere.  Probably near the river.  Why?” 

“No, I meant, what condition was the warehouse in?” 

“It was . . . on fire,” House said slowly. 

“Big fire?” 

“Yeah.  The whole ground floor.” 

“And you were where?” 

“On the floor above.  When it gave way, I fell down to the ground floor.” 

“Was there anything . . . _odd_ about that fire?” 

“It was bright, it was hot, it burned things . . . it was a _fire_ , Wilson, what are you trying to get at?” 

“If I told you someone had spent over an hour on the second floor of a burning warehouse, fell through the floor, was completely surrounded by flames and had a burning girder fall just behind him causing an explosion that blew out the doors, _and yet he walked out completely unscathed_ , what would you say?” 

“I’d say you were nuts.  The smoke inhalation by itself would be enough to kill someone in that situation, let alone the fall.” 

“And yet,”  Wilson gestured at House.  “Here you are.” 

“I . . .” 

“No one,” Wilson went on, “ _No one_ , House, could have survived a situation like that, _unless he was fictional._ ” 

 House wavered for a moment as non-reality sank in.  “The show,” he said, softly.  “It . . . ended.” 

“Yep.  Right here, where we are now.” 

“But we’re still here.” 

“Yes!”  Wilson’s grin lit up his face.  “We were real enough, to enough people, that we made it to the only guaranteed afterlife there is.  We’ve become iconic:  the fans don’t want to let us go!  Now,” Wilson said, drawing himself up and striking a dramatic pose, his voice suddenly deep and resonant, “now, we belong to the ages.” 

House rolled his eyes. 

“Or,” Wilson said in a normal voice, “at least to the fan writers.” 

“So . . . what happens now?” 

“Anything.” 

“Anything?” 

“ _Anything_ , House.  Just wait and see.  It’ll be amazing.”

 

 


End file.
